In her head she heard pins drop.
Flies rumouring.
Dead images revitalised.
The hair on her skin curled.
The blood flow arrested.
Her lips ground.
Her breath drags her where
Truths lie in her body.
She wrestles whilst
She sits still and
Can’t master a thing.
It’s in my body.
It’s in my body.
It’s in my body.
She tries to smoke it out.
Open up her skin to create a crevice, freedom, an exit.
Drown it as she gets her blood boiling.
Dehydrating it with her tears.
And she sings a song and
The weight seems to disappear.
“Young Girl Dressed In Yellow” by József Rippl-Rónai (1861-1927)
Croque-Melpomene 